


you're gone, and heaven cries

by rottingflower



Series: six thousand twenty-three years and counting (or: the shared history of an angel and a demon) [3]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Pining (Good Omens), Alternate Universe - Historical, Angst, Aziraphale Needs a Hug (Good Omens), Blood and Injury, Denial of Feelings, Emotional Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, Letters, Loneliness, M/M, Minor Original Character(s), Oblivious Aziraphale (Good Omens), POV Aziraphale (Good Omens), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Canon, Pre-Slash, Slow Burn, Trauma, World War I, as you might expect in a fic about a war
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-03
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-16 14:54:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29826645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rottingflower/pseuds/rottingflower
Summary: In 1915, Aziraphale goes to war. He heals, despite Heaven's belief that he shouldn't be using his miracles on humans, and sits by the bedsides of men he shouldn't be saving. And he writes - letters he shouldn't be composing, to a demon that will never see them.(This series is set in a connected and canon-compliant universe, but all works can be read as a stand-alone.)
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: six thousand twenty-three years and counting (or: the shared history of an angel and a demon) [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2092272
Comments: 10
Kudos: 26





	you're gone, and heaven cries

Ypres, Belgium

5 May 1915

“Hello,” Aziraphale murmurs, crouching by the fallen man. Or, man - he is little more than a boy, Aziraphale reflects, and watches him blank until his glazy eyes finally focus. He can’t be more than twenty years old, slight in figure. His uniform is still too baggy for him, and now it’s all muddy and bloody.

“Wha’?” the boy murmurs, and his eyes glide away again, to the bodies of his fallen comrades.

Aziraphale grabs the boy’s arm, ignoring the hiss that comes from the injured soldier at that. Flesh injuries are the least of their concerns this time; the Germans used mustard gas again.

“You’ll be just fine,” Aziraphale assures him, loosening his grip. “What’s your name? Hm?”

“Matthew,” the boy says. The burns already start at his neck, working up to his left cheek. He must’ve been handsome before. Now the burns mar his freckled face, red and angry. 

Aziraphale makes a decision and hoists Matthew up. The boy cries in protests, gagging at the sudden movement. All of the men around him are dead already, Matthew the only one among them still breathing. Aziraphale would’ve gotten here earlier, but even he can’t walk onto a battlefield where they’re still shooting. Now the Germans are gone, and only death is left in the aftermath.

“You’ll be alright,” he whispers, with no indication if Matthew can even hear him. The boy mewls in his ear, more pain than consciousness right now. Aziraphale tightens his grip and marches him away, and ignores the way Matthew sobs on his shoulder, too weak to cling for his life and too ill to care anyway.

“God,” the boy cries out. Aziraphale lets his own cheek rest against the boy’s hair, the sand and grass in it making the strands greasy. Matthew faintly smells of horseradish, but he knows that’s only the mustard gas still lingering in the air. Fortunately it’s a clear day; it’ll hang in the air for around a day and then be gone.

Aziraphale walks back to the infirmary, Matthew finally going unconscious in his arms, and refuses to think of anything but getting the boy to a proper bed.

~*~*~*~

Even surrounded by humans, Aziraphale manages to feel so, so very lonely.

Something in him has sharpened. He’s been walking this planet for nearly six thousand years. Being what he is, and given his task on Earth, he’s seen horrible things, of course. He’s seen the first murderer in the world, the haughty look in Cain’s eyes after the truth came out after Abel’s death. The cities of Sodom and Gomorrah, utterly destroyed. The cries when the rain started to pour in earnestly during the Flood, and the moment those crose were drowned. The language divide in Babylon, with families torn apart.

He’s seen wars, too. Big wars, important wars. He’s always had a distaste for violence, even back at the beginning. It’s only grown over the years. 

This isn’t just violence, anymore. This is utterly, devastatingly beyond that.

The very air they breathe on the battlefield is toxic. Mustard gas is lethal after ten minutes, in the higher dose. That the humans are using it, even in war - such a _pointless_ war, he considers it, such a _useless_ , deadly war - is abhorrent. He sees how these men die, slowly, gasping for breath. Their eyes going blind from the gas, the blisters all over their body.

Now, he sits by Matthew’s bedside. The boy won’t suffer such a fate, he tells himself. He’s still young and strong, and now he’s got himself a guardian angel. The fighting has died out for today, along with their men. 

“Mr Fell.”

It’s one of the nurses, Ms Chapman. Aziraphale likes to make himself scarce around the humans, these days. Just seeing them reminds him of what they are capable of. Even these nurses, who are trying to heal and undo all the suffering, they’re not above the war. They don’t cry anymore, when they strap the soldiers to their bed when they’re suffering from mustard gas and won’t sit still. 

Ms Chapman cried the first day of the Battle of Ypres. Her eyes are not even red-rimmed now. At the very least, humans are far more adaptable than Aziraphale is. Perhaps it’s his nature; Crowley always said he can be slow on the uptake. 

“Yes?” he asks politely. Technically, Aziraphale is here to be a nurse. He’s not the only male nurse around, but he’s definitely outnumbered, and that makes him somewhat noticeable, unfortunately.

He wonders if she’ll tell him to go somewhere else, or to face another injured soldier. Aziraphale’s not sure he’s up to it, today, and he already has a miracle ready in hand to make her forget the issue altogether.

Instead, she grabs a chair and sits down next to him, watching Matthew’s disturbed sleep.

“It doesn’t get any easier, does it?” she says gently. “The slow decay, the pain? We do the best we can, but they will be taken from us eventually.”

Aziraphale studies her, the gentle twist of her nose, the darkness of her eyes. She doesn’t seem as if she’s slept a lot the past few days.

“No,” he murmurs.

“If you need a friend, I’m here,” she says, and awkwardly pats his hand. “We’ll take care of them together, Mr Fell. You don’t have to watch them suffer alone.” 

“Thank you,” Aziraphale says, and knows that he won’t ever take her up on it.

Ms Chapman rises, her eyes fleeting over to the soldier. Matthew hacks out a cough, whispers out something too soft to hear, and continues sleeping. His situation isn’t improving. In fact, Aziraphale has been waiting for him to die for a couple of hours.

Maybe he has gotten used to it. A little bit. 

“I’ll see you later,” Ms Chapman mutters, and leaves to go to the next patient. She’s definitely better at this than he is, Aziraphale reflects. He tries to do things the human way, the _proper_ way, and treat these burns with gasoline and rub them with soap and hot water. Rinse and repeat, rinse and repeat. 

When she has left, and no one is paying attention to him anymore, he scooches closer to Matthew’s bed. The young man’s pallor is horrible, and the burns still cling to his skin, making him look ghastly. 

“Please live,” Aziraphale whispers. He bows his head and takes the boy’s hand, closing his eyes. “Please, my Lord, let him live. They’re too young to die, and this is too horrible a death. Save him. No one deserves this. Please.”

He ends his half-prayer by opening his eyes again. Matthew’s breaths are still shallow as ever, the burns still on his body. Six thousand years on this world, and humans have come to this. All this hope, all this glory, all the revolutions and advancements, and for what? For them to do _this_?

Does this _not_ warrant a Flood? What sin is too heavy for humankind to recover from, if not this?

He sits by Matthew’s bedside for the entire night, and the boy does not stop breathing.

~*~*~*~

It’s stupid, Aziraphale is very much aware. The concept of writing letters to one you love is so human. Yet he sees them everywhere in the trenches, the boys penning letters every single day, the tip of their tongue between their lips as they try to find the words which could be their last.

Some of them write poetry, instead. Aziraphale could’ve found his joy in that, but he thinks he finally understands why Crowley didn’t much like Shakespeare’s tragedies. He’s not finding as much relief in their words, not when they’re this tragic. Beautiful, but haunting. He’s overcome by a desire to go to London and go to the Globe, back in time by about three hundred years. 

He’d watch the comedies with Crowley, and maybe skip some of the tragedies. He’d study the lines of Crowley’s face more carefully, catalogue each of his laughs. He vaguely remembers what they sounded like; Crowley laughs like it comes as a surprise every time, the sound forced out of him as if he’s not expecting it. 

Instead, Aziraphale joins the soldiers in writing letters. At first, he doesn’t write them to a specific person. It’s only later that he realises he’s writing them to Crowley.

This is the really stupid bit. Crowley hasn’t talked to him since 1862, when he’d made that awful request for holy water and Aziraphale had stomped away, aching in ways he had no name for.

The ache is still there, thumping behind his heart. It’s loneliness, perhaps. He’s always had Crowley to fall back on if things got bad. Crowley used to reach out if any war got too bad and they’d get something to eat, or discuss some of the current events. Crowley would be so lighthearted about it, even if Aziraphale _knew_ he hated what was happening, too. Somehow, it’d lighten Aziraphale’s spirits too.

It’s the only reason he writes, of course. He never sends any of the letters: he’s not even sure where Crowley is, and if he wants to hear from him. Besides, he doesn’t want Crowley to know how miserable it is, how useless existence seems, in the trenches in Belgium. He doesn’t _need_ him, he just needs to let out his thoughts.

And so he writes his letters, and folds the paper and carries it in his coat as if he keeps his own words near. He wouldn’t be able to tell himself why he does it, either.

~*~*~*~

“My throat,” Matthew tells him, two days after Aziraphale carried him back from the battlefield. His burns are a little less red, thanks to the care and perhaps one of Aziraphale’s blessings. It’s not enough to save him, though.

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale says, and offers him a sip of water. Matthew shakes his head.

“Can’t breathe,” he rasps, and twitches his fingers. He must be hurting all over; the water will be hurting him more than it’ll do good.

“I know,” Aziraphale murmurs, and puts away the cup of water. “Do you have any family, Matthew? Anyone who’ll be waiting for a letter from you?”

Matthew turns his head. His hair is still dirty, plastered to his forehead with dried sweat. He slowly blinks as his eyes find Aziraphale’s. “My mum,” he whispers. 

“I’ll send her a letter from you,” Aziraphale promises, and pats the boy’s arm. He’s hot to the touch. Mustard gas; it’s a slow death, a horrible one. He can’t save him. He’s only getting worse, and he’s in pain.

“Please,” Matthew says, and his voice wheezes. “ _Please_. I can’t - I can’t - I can’t _breathe_.”

Aziraphale leans over him. Matthew’s eyes are red and unseeing. He presses his fingers against the boy’s lids gently, closing them for him. Matthew breathes on, panicked, his chest heaving with the very effort.

“I’m so sorry it came to this,” Aziraphale says. He blesses him, again; the tinge of a holy miracle spreads from his fingers to Matthew. It’s one last chance. Gabriel won’t like it, him using his miracles so openly, so easily. How can he not? How can he look at this young man, little more than a child, dying in an open field, struggling to breathe? How can he leave him to suffer and eventually find a painful death?

Matthew’s pain is eased. The injuries aren’t gone, and Aziraphale withdraws his fingers. Another failure: his body is too far gone for even an angel’s miracle to work. Too little and too late. Maybe if he’d gone on the battlefield earlier, save them even as they were dying -

Matthew exhales, and then does not inhale. His finger stops twitching.

Aziraphale brings a hand to his own face, and crumbles.

~*~*~*~

“Who are you writing to?” Ms Chapman asks, sliding down next to him. The tents are cold and uncomfortable, but her skin is warm and her eyes are more alive than most, and Aziraphale can’t find it in himself to send her away. “Wife at home?”

“Erm,” Aziraphale says, and frowns. “No one. I’m trying to write a letter to - to Matthew’s mother. He told me - erm. Right before he died.”

“Oh,” she says, and visibly deflates. It’s silent for a few seconds before she continues. “You know, it’s very kind what you did for him. Sitting by his bedside, taking care of him. He died in peace, at the end. It’s better than weeks of suffering, Mr Fell. You did all you could.”

“It should have been more,” Aziraphale murmurs. 

She’s shaking her head before he’s even done, pursing her lips. “You did all you could,” she repeats forcefully. “We all do. We’re only human, Mr Fell. Only human.”

Somehow, it brings a smile to his face. “There’s nothing ‘only’ about that, my dear.”

She raises her eyebrows. “So? No wife at home? I’ve seen you sitting before, Mr Fell, penning on the paper. You certainly didn’t seem as troubled writing then as you do now.”

“Well,” Aziraphale says, and sighs. “This letter is far harder. But no, I don’t have a wife at home, Ms Chapman. No one, really. No one as dear as a mother and a son.”

“So who do you write?” she asks.

He thinks of Crowley, standing still in St James Park, that fateful day in 1862. He’d been nervous, hadn’t he? Aziraphale had not noticed, had only been able to think about the two words on the scrap of paper that Crowley had handed him. The fire it started in his soul, to think about Crowley getting hold of holy water, holding the very thing that would destroy his existence until he’d be nowhere in this universe -

“No one important,” he says.

Ms Chapman does not look convinced, but he does not need her to be. She takes the letter for Matthew’s mother, gently runs her fingers down the first lines he’s written. It’s not much, and the words are awkward. Aziraphale has never been good at explaining tragedy. It’s not in his nature.

“She’ll be grateful to hear from you,” Ms Chapman says, and the paper crisps quietly in her hands. “It’s better than nothing.”

“Have you ever written for your patients’ relatives?” Aziraphale asks her carefully. “I’m glad to do it, of course, it’s just - erm. I don’t know how, very well.”

She shifts and brushes back her dark hair where it falls in front of her face. Her neat bun has lost some stray locks after the hours locked up with the injured, but she doesn’t seem like she would rather leave him alone here. Aziraphale can suddenly see why she is a nurse. Patient, and kind, and yet so capable of trudging on through the pain.

“He was catholic, wasn’t he?” she asks, and gives him back the paper. “I’d write, next, maybe, that you’ve been by his side, and that he wasn’t alone -”

~*~*~*~

Dear Crowley,

I am miserable. I am miserable in every single conceivable way. I don’t want to admit it: I never could. Where is my place, if not here, with those that are suffering? 

These are not words I could ever allow myself to utter aloud. Even to write them down here, on paper, in a letter I will not ever send, feels like blasphemy. But surely She knows my thoughts whether they are on paper or not, and the human way of conveying them, ordering them, appeals to me, somehow.

There’s something I must admit, although I will not ever tell you this in person, as sure as I would not tell Heaven, although for different reasons entirely: I am not sure how long I can last among such agony.

There’s nothing for it, of course. In Ypres, there’s little that can soothe anyone’s pains, right now. I watch them scar and die, and I find myself wondering what this bit of history will be remembered for. The valour of their actions? They are brave, and steadfast: they are soldiers that would do even Heaven proud, I think. But for what reason they fight, I’m still not sure. I’m beyond trying to understand: I’m too far removed from humans, perhaps, to fully understand this matter. Maybe I don’t even want to try to see what would drive them to these lengths.

All I can do is try and ease their suffering, and so I shall.

Yours,

Aziraphale

~*~*~*~

After this, Aziraphale decides as he scoops up another spoonful of inedible drudge, he doubts he’ll ever eat corned beef again. The food already wasn’t great when they just arrived in the trenches, and it’s growing worse with the day.

Maybe it’s time to pay the piper for his years of enjoying all sorts of delicacies. His corporation is used to eating, and it’ll take some time to wane off, but he certainly doesn’t actually need the food that he is consuming each day. There will be shortages soon, and he is taking dearly needed food away from a soldier.

The thought, once settled in his head, makes him lose any appetite he did feel, and he lowers his utensils. All around him, the other nurses keep eating. He barely knows any of them, keeps apart whenever he can. 

He’d rather not get attached. Especially in wartime, it’s proven to be a dangerous thing.

“Excuse me,” he mutters to the lady who sits next to him, her freckled and sun-kissed face only turning to him for a second when he wedges himself out of the benches and away from the table. He starts walking, knowing his way around the tents well enough that he doesn’t need to think too hard.

He’d come to Ypres as one of the first nurses, straight from England. He had known what was happening, in the war. He just hadn’t been aware of everything it entailed, and he feels foolish for that. The mustard gas had thrown him off, like it had for everyone else. His horror hadn’t been faked. Sometimes, when he’s near the infirmary, he can hear the hackling coughs of those who are slowly dying from it, still. It has not yet failed to make him stop in his tracks, so far.

The trenches are only a few minutes’ walk away. He stops by the croaky bed he’s claimed for himself, and reaches under the metaphorical space he’s miracled there. He grabs his pencils and a scrap of paper from under there, leaving his old letters sitting there safely. With that settled, he walks out into the night, until he settles himself right in between the nurses’ tents and the trenches, where the soldiers will be awake all night.

It’s going to rain tonight, he thinks. The clouds are dark and ominous above him, coloured a crimson red during the sunset. The soldiers, in their dugouts, won’t have anything sheltering them.

He starts scribbling a new letter, holding the paper against his knee as he settles in the grass. His clothes will get muddy, but he’s long past caring. He’s muddy most of the time, now, and only makes sure that he’s clean for when he’s tending to someone’s wounds. 

No one comes to bother him here as he pours out his heart.

~*~*~*~*~

Dear Crowley,

I wonder what you would make of the time. We’ve both seen our fair share of war, of course. We know what happens, we’ve seen the bloodshed. It seems naive of me to be this affected: then again, I’ve not seen all wars this closely. The vision of man killing man sticks to the very inside of my eyelids. The mustard gas, Crowley, it’s so vile and abhorrent, so absolutely disgusting, and to be here even one more single day -

Alas. There’s no use to speak of it. These days, I find myself wondering what you thought upon witnessing your first heinous act of humanity. At the start of my thought process, I wondered what that act might have been, before I realised I saw you in the aftermath of it. Abel’s death at the hands of Abel, while you stood there, watching. I didn’t understand it at the time, but now I want to know your thoughts at that very moment. Were you as shocked as I am right now?

I remember what you told me, that fateful day. I must admit I wondered privately, back then, if you’d really not caused Cain to strike his brother, even unknowingly. Now, I think I know how you might have felt. We barely knew one another, back then: you would not have confided in me. You still might not. However, I now know what it is like to see them doing these things, acts that you had not imagined in the darkest part of your own soul. Did you yell at Cain to stop? I feel, sometimes, the urge to open my wings and tell them to stop in name of a higher authority. But that authority is barely me, and if they are at each other’s throat, it’s only because it’s God’s will. A terrifying will, sometimes, but I must believe Her Word is good. Ineffable, at the very least, although you’re tired of me mentioning it, I know it. Her will is Hers, at the very least, and that closes the matter entirely.

I hope you’re somewhere far away from the war. I hope you’re not tired of watching them do the things you don’t want them to do. And I know you don’t want this, Crowley, demon or not, you don’t want them to do this, as little as I do. I wish you were here. Although I wish even more that you’re somewhere that won’t bring you as much grief.

Yours,

Aziraphale

~*~*~*~

30 July 1915

“Move, move!”

Aziraphale is barely aware of what he’s doing when the nurses all start running around the place. The attack was unexpected; even now, he can barely keep track of what he’s doing. The Germans have broken the line that the British troops were holding near Hooge. All of the nurses had been roughly awakened to stand-by in the middle of the night.

Aziraphale hadn’t been sleeping, of course. He’d barely had had time to stash away his letters when they’d all been called.

“Do you think there’ll be many wounded, again?” It’s one of the nurses, a petite female with curling brown hair. In the dark of the night, he can’t well tell how she feels about their situation. Her voice is rough, but that might still be the lingering sleep.

“I hope not,” he says honestly.

“Me neither,” she whispers, and her hand finds his, her fingers wrapping around his own. Aziraphale is startled, but he squeezes it softly, and she squeezes back.

He is torn apart from his newfound friend to commiserate with when the first soldiers are brought back from the trenches. Aziraphale can hear some bombs from the distance, but he focuses on his first charge instead, moving swifter than he believed himself possible when the soldier groans.

There’s a bullet in the man’s shoulder, and burn marks on the left side of his face. His fingers tremble as he holds onto Aziraphale’s sleeve.

“Mustard gas?” Aziraphale asks, trying to drag the man with him to the nurse’s tents without having him sway too badly. It’s consistent with the burn marks, although these are different. Less subtle, for one, and for another, it seems like his uniform burned with him, almost.

“Flamethrower,” the man gasps, and falls on the first bed they find when they get to the tents. There’s already a flurry of activity going on here, and two other nurses take him over when Aziraphale drops him rather ungracefully.

“What?” Aziraphale asks, and looks towards the flaps of the tent. The sounds of war are audible even behind the lines. He hopes the Germans won’t break through: there’s too many people here to be able to evacuate all of them, and most of them are injured. He can already see how it’s going to go: they’ll save the ones who can walk best, leave the rest.

Aziraphale walks out again without another word. He hears the other nurses talk about flamethrowers, the newest innovation of a war that’s already asked so much of them. First the mustard gas, now the flamethrowers - won’t this insanity ever stop?

He finds himself hurrying towards the frontlines, the trenches. The attack is going on along part of the lines they’re keeping hold of, slipping through the fingers of the allied soldiers, and Aziraphale might not be able to do much, but he won’t let this inhumane suffering continue. He can’t.

A heart that he doesn’t need beats loudly in his chest, almost seeming to choke him, but with a quick miracle, he turns himself unnoticeable as he spreads his wings and flies towards Hooge, where the heaviest fighting is taking place.

From the dark sky, the war is almost impersonal. He swirls in the clouds, following the sound of bombs and heavy shouting. The flamethrowers are a vibrant spot of orange against the freshly trodden grass, dark blue in the night. They are fighting over inches of land, struggling and giving up their lives for barely any gain.

Aziraphale ducks down when he lands, unnoticed in the middle of the fighting, and snaps his fingers. 

The flamethrowers give a loud gurgle and then stop. The men handling them look at each other in confusion, but then have to duck down as their enemies approach.

“Quick!” he hears a man yelling, and then the piercing noise of bullets gliding past him. He should be more afraid of a possible discorporation than he is, but mostly, he’s just weary. The bullets fly past him, and he’s still going unnoticed. The miracle won’t last for much longer, not now that he should be in plain view. 

He can’t make himself move. One of the Germans who was using a flamethrower falls to the ground, a soft thud in an otherwise sea of noise. He dies quietly, immediately, with no one to witness his passing. His comrades are fleeing back, only stopping to shoot back at the Allies. 

Aziraphale exhales and shields his face as a bomb lands near him. It sends him flying towards the ground, and his wings break most of his fall. He turns to see the perfect white covered in dark mud, his ankle throbbing suddenly. 

“Oh, Lord,” he whispers, “please, please. Don’t let them do this. Please.”

She doesn’t listen, or perhaps She doesn’t pay heed to what Aziraphale wants. She never has before. The men keep yelling, the shots keep coming. Aziraphale shivers on the ground, slowly helping himself up to his knees. His hands press into the dew-cold grass, the soggy surface giving away under his weight. 

He will be noticed soon, if he doesn’t leave. He can’t sustain the miracle for much longer. He forces himself up, wiping off his palms on his dirtied uniform. His wings flutter, and then he’s back in the sky, flying back to Ypres. 

When he lands, he can barely keep himself upright. His ankle still stings, but he doesn’t have the energy to miracle himself whole again. More soldiers are coming in already; fortunately, no one’s paying him or his mud-ridden appearance any heed. He looks no worse than most of them do, at any rate.

He checks up on the soldier he brought in first, but there’s already someone else lying on the bed. The man must have already died and been removed. Aziraphale stares at the new soldier in the bed, crying out in pain. The tear tracks are the only thing on his face that have a sign of cleanliness.

Aziraphale gives his hands a quick rinse. He scrubs until his nails are pink and white again, and then he winds up back with the new soldiers, and cleans the wound that punctures the man’s stomach.

~*~*~*~

“So. This is what you do?”

She looks at him sternly even as she sits down.

“Ms Chapman,” Aziraphale acknowledges her wearily, even as he mindfully dresses Archie’s bullet wound. The skin around it is pink and irritated, and the wound itself isn’t improving as much as Aziraphale wanted to see.

“Mr Fell,” she says, and blows the hair from her face as she crosses his arms. “I asked you something.”

“And I’m sure I don’t understand what you’re implying,” he says evenly. Should he bind it tighter? He doesn’t want it to start bleeding again, but he doesn’t want Archie to be uncomfortable. Since the man hasn’t woken up ever in quite some time, it’s not something Aziraphale can ask him.

She snaps her finger, and he looks up. “Is this what you do? You find these soldiers, the ones closest to a horrible death, and you sit with them until they either survive or die?”

She has a point, really. It _is_ what Aziraphale mostly has been doing.

“No,” he says, and decides to leave Archie’s binding as it is. If it’s uncomfortable, the man should have the decency to wake up and tell him so.

“Look,” she says, and her voice is softer now. She grabs his arm before he can lean back. “I’ve noticed you doing it, alright. You get - attached. It’s not the best thing to do, in our line of work. I know it’s hard to see them coming in and seeing them die, time after time. But you can’t do this to yourself.”

“I’m not doing anything,” he snaps, and loosens his arm from her grip.

“I did it too, you know,” she says, and bites her lip. “If I notice you’re doing it, it’s because _I did it too_. And it’s going to drive you mad. I don’t - you’re too kind to be a nurse, Mr Fell. It’s going to eat at you, and you’re going to let it, because these men - they _deserve_ to be known as individuals. They deserve to have someone sitting by their bedside, taking care of them. But it’s going to kill _you_ , as a person.”

“But some of them get to _live_ ,” Aziraphale says.

“Yeah,” she murmurs. “That’s true. But most of them just die.”

He exhales. Ms Chapman can’t be much older than thirty-five, at most, and he thinks he might judge her to be older because of the war going on. 

“I never thanked you for the letter,” Aziraphale says. “For Matthew.”

A tired smile tugs at her lips. “It’s alright. I know you were worried about other things. Your own letters, perhaps?”

He tenses. “Perhaps.”

The smile falls from her face at that, too, and she pats his arm. “Try not to let yourself go mad with it, Mr Fell,” she says. “You can’t help anyone if you can’t continue, yourself.”

She moves to walk away, presumably going to the next patient. She’s a better nurse than Aziraphale, although that’s not hard to achieve. He feels a bit useless moving from one person to another. Maybe he’s always been better at this kind of approach - slow but sure, one thing at a time. 

“Ms Chapman?” he says, and she turns around, her eyebrows raised. “Thank you.”

She huffs, not unkindly. “You’re welcome, Mr Fell. And call me Vera.”

Aziraphale blinks. “Oh. Erm. Alright. Ezra for me, then.”

She smiles, then, and it’s far more sincere and playful. It’s the kind of smile Aziraphale hasn’t seen directed at him since the early 1800s, and even then rarely, only if he said something extraordinarily witty.

“Nah,” she says brightly. “I’ll see you later, Mr Fell.”

~*~*~*~

Dear Crowley,

I saved some lives today. My blessings are easier to work with those who don’t hurt as badly, and those with clean wounds. I can’t always explain how it works, but I felt them start to breathe a little easier, and some of those who have been unconscious since their last battle woke up. 

It makes it easier to know I can do something, if not much. I am watching over a soldier now whose wound is gravely infected, and he won’t wake up. I’ve blessed him twice now, to no avail. I think I shan’t do it again: some things can’t be forced. They must be done the human way, apparently, to either life or death. 

I’m not sure if it helps, to know that he’s beyond my reach. His life is not in my hands at this point, and that is something of a relief. I have done what I can, and in that knowledge, there is some peace. At the same time, I know there’s a thousand other soldiers that I can’t reach in time, and it saddens me. It’s not my task on Earth, but I _was_ told to guard them, as you’ll recall. But who to guard from whom? They are all shooting at their fellow humans, and gassing them, and burning them. 

If I save only one, it’ll have been worth it. With that in mind, it’s also easier to think about you, my dear boy. It makes me stand even firmer in my decision not to give you what you wanted: I will save _you_ , if I can. At the very least, I won’t give you the method to your madness, the only thing that would utterly destroy you. And if I save your life in doing so, it’ll have been worth it. I don’t care what you have to say on the matter.

Yours,

Aziraphale

~*~*~*~

Aziraphale can tell that he’s displeased the second he sees Gabriel.

Gabriel is dressed as a soldier, but his uniform is more beige than brown. He is scowling down at it, and then at Aziraphale. They’re meeting in between the tents and the trenches, abandoned at this point. If someone were to pass by, Aziraphale isn’t sure if he could pass it off as a friendly conversation. What soldier leaves his post like this? What nurse abandons his patients in the middle of the day?

The blue of the sky is crisp above them, and when Aziraphale exhales, he can see his breath. Not Gabriel’s; he’s not accustomed to breathing. He’s always worn a male corporation with a good physique, but something has always been a little bit… off about him, by human standards. 

The eyes that refuse to entirely lose the purple, maybe. Or the lack of breathing, of a heartbeat. 

“Hello, Aziraphale,” Gabriel says. Somewhere far away, the sky grumbles, and Aziraphale frowns. There aren’t even any clouds.

“Good afternoon, Gabriel,” Aziraphale greets him, and folds his hands in front of himself. He feels very small, now, and inadequate. Gabriel has never been particularly friendly with him, but in the past, Gabriel’s anger mostly came in the form of strongly worded notes, with which Aziraphale knows what to do.

“We need to talk about your use of miracles,” Gabriel says sternly, and takes a step forward. His beige uniform fits him perfectly, enhancing every line of human perfection. Aziraphale thinks of his own dirtied shock-white hair, the faded green and brown spots on his own uniform that he’s never bothered to miracle away or wash to perfection. 

“Erm, yes,” Aziraphale. He’d guessed that Gabriel would want to see him about it. He knows he hasn’t exactly been using them sparingly, and after that warning in the late 1700s, it makes sense that Gabriel is beyond notes. 

“You must stop, Aziraphale. You’re not here to heal humans.”

“Yes, I know,” Aziraphale says, “but really, Gabriel, these are extraordinary circumstances, and there are other things at play -”

“I. Don’t. Care.” Gabriel closes the distance between them. He towers a good few inches above Aziraphale, and he pokes him in the chest. Aziraphale takes a small step backwards, staring at Gabriel’s very straight and perfect nose instead of the eyes.

“They’re dying,” Aziraphale whispers. 

“Yes,” Gabriel says. “Exactly according to the Plan. Look, you’re doing a good thing, Aziraphale. You’ve been on Earth for a long time, and we all commend you for your… disturbing tenacity. But you know that you can’t interfere with Her will, right? These humans, they’re not _meant_ to survive. Don’t involve yourself in things that are beyond you.”

“I won’t,” he says and swallows thickly. It feels vile, and he feels his hand clenching and unclenching. “I just… they’re suffering.”

Gabriel’s expression turns softer for a second. “If you need a break, you can always come back to Heaven and we’ll send someone else here. It’s long overdue.”

It’s a sign of - _something_ , at least, that Aziraphale considers it for a moment. Leaving the war, and not going back to London, but to Heaven. The sterile and perfect white, unbroken by any human invention. Glass windows and tall structures, the openness of it. He could go back to what he was before Earth, before humans. 

He barely even remembers what that was like. He wants to go _home_ , but that’s not Heaven at this point, is it? He hasn’t stayed there for a prolonged period since he was first posted, and he’s never regretted that. Home is _London_ , now, it’s his bookshop. Home is the smell of old parchment and a candle burning, hot cocoa and dust on his window frame. 

Going back to Heaven? He can’t even _fathom_ it, at this point. What would he even _do_?

“No, no,” he manages. “That won’t be necessary. They - erm, I think I can stay for a while longer. I’ll be _fine_ , absolutely fine.”

Gabriel grins tightly and clasps his shoulder for a second, his grip almost painful. “That’s good to hear. Oh, by the way, how’s it going with the demon Crowley? We’ve heard there’s not been much demonic activity going on lately.”

Aziraphale blinks. “Oh,” he says. “I’m not sure. That’s - that’s to say, I haven’t thwarted anything, lately, since there’s not been anything _to_ thwart.”

“I don’t like it,” Gabriel mutters, and his eyes are dark for a second, the sky grumbling yet again. Then it clears up, and he smiles. “Well! Keep your eyes peeled, and _don’t do any more miracles_! Capiche? See you later!”

Gabriel disappears in a flash of light, leaving Aziraphale to stand alone in the field. He sighs and starts the trek back to the tents.

~*~*~*~

It’s the first time he finds her. It’s not even intentional, this time. The moon is clear in the sky, casting a muted and soft light over the fields in Ypres. She is sitting in the grass cross-legged, her skirt straining against her knees. A can of corned beef is sitting beside her.

“Want some?” she offers, not even perturbed when he sits down next to her in the cold grass. It surprises him, because he’d barely even made the choice to join her consciously. “I used to hate corned beef. I think it’s grown on me.”

“No, thank you, my dear,” he says, waving it away and trying not to turn his nose up.

Vera laughs at that. “A sybarite, aren’t you? Does corned beef not meet your high standard of living, Mr Fell?”

“My friend always accused me of being a hedonist,” Aziraphale admits. “I’ve always denied it, but I think he might have the right of it.”

She hums, and turns more serious. She pokes a finger in the can and licks the corned beef off it, cold as it is. “I doubt you’re much of a hedonist for not liking this kind of life,” she says. “None of us do. Sometimes, I think of the bed I used to have at home, and I swear I can feel my back protesting at the thought of going to sleep here.”

“Where did you live?” he asks her.

“Haslemere,” Vera says. “It’s a quiet little town near the South Downs. Never even been abroad until I came here. You?”

“London,” he tells her, and smiles wistfully. “I own a bookshop in Soho. I’ve lived there, for, oh - well, forever, I think, is the word that comes to mind.”

She hums. “Must be nice. I’ve only been to London twice, a couple of years ago, when I’d just married. The entire thing was a whirlwind, to be honest. I only really remember going to look at Big Ben.”

“You’re married?” he asks.

“I was,” she says quietly. “Until he died, five years ago. I sat by his bedside for the entire time he was ill, and then one night, he was just gone. I was sleeping myself, so I didn’t even - you know. But it’s better that he died then, I think. Otherwise, he would be out here somewhere. That illness was horrible, but it left him with more dignity than he would’ve had here.”

They sit quietly, for a few moments. Aziraphale’s finger runs over a few of the blades of grass and he looks up to the stars. They shine brightly, here, more so than in London in this day and age. That’s one thing he doesn’t miss about the vibrant city.

“I’m sorry,” he eventually says. “That must have been hard for you.”

She hums. “It’s why I think that you should send those letters to whoever you’re writing to. There’s not much time in this world, Mr Fell. Better make use of what we have.”

“I’m not writing to anyone,” he says sternly. Vera’s lips twitch.

“I’m sure you aren’t.” She starts picking at some of the blades, absentmindedly ripping them from the ground. Aziraphale would tell her to stop, but what use is it, really? So he lets her, his own eyes tracking her movement. “How’s Archie doing?” 

He almost doesn’t notice the question, and when he does, he finds himself glaring at her. “Now, Vera, I think you know well enough. He’s still asleep. I’m not sure when he will wake up, but - he’s still alive. That’s something, at least.”

“He is,” she admits. “It’s more than some others can hope for.”

Unfortunately, it’s true. Aziraphale exhales, and feeling an upcoming need to write another letter, stands up. It’s cold outside, anyway, and he’s always been partial to a nice and hot cup of tea in the night. He hopes he’ll be able to find one, but otherwise, the warmth of a blanket might be enough to warm him up.

“Good night, Vera,” he offers, leaving her to it.

“Night, Mr Fell,” she says, and he stills, wondering one last thing.

“Why’s that?” he asks, turning. “I’m just - why do you still call me Mr Fell, my dear? You know you don’t have to keep calling me by my last name, do you?”

“Oh, I know,” Vera says, huffing out some laughter as she takes a bite from the corned beef. “You just don’t strike me as the type of person who should be referred to as anything _but_ Mr Fell. You don’t look like anyone’s _ever_ called you Ezra, in your entire life.”

Well. The invention of a first name is still rather young; he might decide not to go through with it at all. So far, no one has really had a use for it. Crowley would’ve laughed at him for it, he thinks, and then told him to wait a few more centuries to try his hand at fitting in with the humans.

He sighs. “I suppose they haven’t,” he mutters, and speaks up again. “Sleep well, then. Don’t stay up too late.”

She laughs at that. It warms his heart a little, as he finds his way back to the tents.

~*~*~*~

Dear Crowley,

I know I’m the one between us that is the one to keep grudges. Somehow, you always find your way back to me. I know fifty-three years is hardly the longest we’ve gone without meeting each other, but I suppose the 19th century spoiled me a bit regarding your company. I know you told me to never bring up Lady Thynne’s name again, but looking back on it, I did think we rather had a bit of fun. And not only because of the books, you wily serpent.

I suppose I thought you’d come back, those first few years. I always imagined you’d stroll into the bookshop and just lean against the door, like you have a thousand times before. You’d tempt me into going for a nice walk, and I’d let you persuade me into it. We would never mention that horrible conversation again. You tend to give me my way, you know. I didn’t notice until recently, but you always have. I just assumed it would be the same, this time. But you haven’t walked in, and now I find myself wondering if you ever will again.

Yours,

Aziraphale

~*~*~*~

Archie’s first moments of being both conscious and fully lucid are a full month after his battle. His injuries are still severe, but his general unawareness was the most worrying thing about his situation.

Aziraphale is sitting next to him when he wakes up, and finds himself almost falling off the chair as two brown eyes regard him sleepily, but more clearly than they have in weeks. The rain is ticking loudly against the tent, and Archie swirls his head around, presumably taking in his surroundings.

“Oh,” he murmurs, and moves to check up on the soldier. “You’re awake. _You’re awake_.”

“Who’re you?” the soldier asks, his syllables slurred, and focuses on Aziraphale again.

“No one,” he says, then quickly considers that it might be a vaguely worrying answer to hear, and amends, “your nurse. I’ve been, erm, taking care of you. How are you feeling?”

“Bloody awful,” Archie says, and coughs as he pulls off his own blanket and skims his fingers past his emaciated form. He’s been eating, but only barely, and only what they could force him while in his unaware state. 

“Oh, well, I imagine,” Aziraphale says gently. “You were in a very bad state, I have to say, when you were first brought in. That was a month ago, Archie.”

Archie stills. The rain ticking becomes only louder; big tears falling from the sky. 

“A month,” he repeats, his voice rough. “A _month_. I have to write to my sister.”

“I’ll help you,” Aziraphale offers immediately. Archie is in no state to get himself any paper or pencils; he doubts the man will even get his fingers moving as needed. His muscles will be entrophied, and he should start off slow. 

Archie is looking at him. “Why?” he asks, slowly. “Don’t you have others - others to look after? Do you - are Hank and John okay? From my division, they were - do you know?”

“I can check for you, if you want,” Aziraphale says, and pats Archie’s arm. “I told you, I’ve been here to take care of you. Now that you’re awake, that doesn’t just _stop_. Now, I’ll get you everything you need for a letter, and I’ll check on your friends. Is there anything else you need?”

Archie grimaces. “My bandage feels a little tight, actually. Is that - supposed to be like that?”

Aziraphale winces. “I’ll get right on it,” he says.

When he walks outside of the tent, fully intent on getting something for Archie to write to his family, it’s still raining. There’s a break in the clouds, and just as he steps outside, the sun falls directly on the tent. It immediately warms Aziraphale when the rays hit him, and he looks towards the clouds, still grey and threatening, slowly being overtaken by the sun.

A rainbow shimmers on the horizon, distant but clearly visible.

“Thank you,” he mutters, and starts walking.

~*~*~*~

4 June 1916

They’ve moved to the east with some of the nurses. Aziraphale had volunteered to come. Even if he feels he must be here, he’s growing a bit tired of Ypres. They’re only a little while away, and it doesn’t much feel like leaving. It’s still near Ypres, and it’s still the same lines. Some of the same soldiers, even.

It doesn’t make it easier when he finds himself nursing yet another man on the brink of death, missing half of a nose and blood hiding the rest of his face. The Battle of Mont Sorrel wages outside, but inside the nurses’ tents, the battle for several dozen soldiers’ lives is happening. 

Aziraphale knows what this battle is about. The peaks are still in Allied hands, and it must not sit well with the German operatives; at the same time, they’re just throwing soldiers at each other to make sure none of the troops move. British troops are moving to the Somme each day; better to keep them scattered and divided.

Just because he can see it, doesn’t mean he can _do_ anything about it.

It’s been a few months in coming, the unrest. Aziraphale has managed to save Archie, and there’s been three others in his care after him. Daniel and John had lived, hanging by a thread but both pulling through. No miracles required, and Aziraphale had almost started to think that he would manage this war.

Then Michael had come into his care, and taken three gruesome weeks to die. His leg had to be amputated, but they’d done it too late. His death was slow, and horrible, and Aziraphale had spent most of them watching the soldier die without even being aware that he was still in the human world. 

He can hear the same anguished cries in the air now, as he absentmindedly flies from soldier to soldier. Ypres itself hadn’t seen a serious battle for months, and Aziraphale had thought that moving would just be a way not to linger. New faces to save.

New faces to watch die, he thinks, as one of the soldiers, just coming on from a stretcher, doesn’t even manage to make it to a bed. All the nurses are fluttering around, the stench of blood and mud and gunpowder heavy in the air. He can hear bombings from the battlefield, still a little while away, and he hears death, death, _death_ \- 

There’s one man without an eye, crying out as he holds his own face, two nurses holding him back and trying to clean it. Aziraphale finds himself next to his bed, miracling some calm into the man so that he can be helped. There is no more thought to his actions; there is only absolute wretched desperation in the air, and he can’t make himself invulnerable to it. He’s an angel, and he was made to sense these things. And now he finds himself responding to it in a way he’s never really allowed himself to in centuries; not since Egypt, at the very least.

He crouches next to beds, and he blesses, and he prays, and he miracles. All tiny things, hopefully enough to save lives. There’s no thought of consequences; all he knows is that he can’t be here and let this pass.

Never again.

He spends the night, wearing himself out, stretching thin the miracles he can hold. For a night, he isn’t who he’s grown used to being. For a night, he is Aziraphale, angel of the Eastern Gate, Principality. And he is none of the things he’s shaped himself into, for six thousand years.

Some of them still die, but the air smells of holiness and blessed things, and it’s almost enough to override the stink of blood and pain. It’s worth it, anyway, to see a boy of no more than nineteen years old wake up, eyes darting around in shock, who certainly would’ve died. He’s saving them, he is, he _is_ , but at what cost?

The single thought is enough to bring Aziraphale back to reality, back to the shouts that he possibly can’t drown out, the agony of people he can’t soothe. Save a dozen, still lose a thousand. And _he_ will lose Earth for the souls he saved.

He flees out of the tent, almost tripping over his own feet as he runs away from all of the humans, both from their deaths and their saviours. He can barely see, but he needs to _leave_. It’s hard to see where he’s going, and then he does trip, and he’s not fast enough to catch himself as he meets the ground face-first.

His nose stings, and he gingerly brings up his hands to touch it. Not broken, he thinks distantly, and not bleeding, but it might bruise later. He forces himself to sit, his scraped knees aching in protest at the movement. It’s a good thing he landed in the grass.

Further away from all that is going on, Aziraphale looks back, and breathes.

With the morning almost come, the sky is a soft blue, the last of the night still lingering. He burrows his hands in the grass, and pulls. The blades come loose with a soft snap, and he brings them to his nose. It smells like dew and morning and hope, and sitting in a field near Ypres, having watched hundreds of men die in the past two days -

Aziraphale shudders, brings down his head in prayer and exhaustion, and smudges away the tear running down his cheek. No others fall, and he sits for a long time.

~*~*~*~

Vera came with the other nurses, too. Aziraphale hadn’t seen her until five days into the battle, and he hadn't gotten a chance to talk to her until now, when it’s over. He’s on duty, technically, although no one’s ever admonished him for just sitting by bedsides. Now, he rather wonders if they haven’t because he hadn’t thought they would, or if they actually don’t check.

She notices, though. Aziraphale sits with his newest patient, Richard. He’s Canadian, and forty years old, and he laughs at Aziraphale’s accent despite having been around the British for some time now, and Aziraphale hasn’t heard anyone laugh in weeks, now. The bullet wound in his leg is being particularly stubborn about healing, and the man may yet lose his leg. It’s not enough to stop him from living life to the fullest, though.

“Hello, Mr Fell,” she says, stopping by Richard’s bed. The patient snores and smacks his lips, and she raises her eyebrows at him. “Dare I ask, is this your newest personal patient?”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” Aziraphale says, determinedly focusing on the letter he’d been penning. It’ll be one of the last, he thinks, because the Battle of Mont Sorrel has come and gone. Aziraphale is still not certain if the battle counts as a loss or a win, technically.

“You never do,” Vera says, and snakes her way to him so she’s behind him. Aziraphale presses his letter against his chest, unwilling to let her see. It’s for Crowley, who’d understand, even though he’ll never see it. 

“Excuse me,” he says tersely. “I was _doing_ something.”

“Writing,” Vera says.

“Yes.”

“To the same person you always write to?”

“Erm - well. Yes.”

“And you’re not going to send it to him?”

Aziraphale taps his foot impatiently. “No, I’m not.”

“You should,” she says, grinning.

“He doesn’t want to hear from me!” Aziraphale lets the words fall from his lips, barely aware that he’s doing it until it’s too late. “He asked me for something I could not give him, and now I don’t know where he is, or what he’s doing, or if he’s alright in this damned war, and if he wanted me to know, he’d find a way. He _always_ finds a way, and he always comes back, but not this time.”

The paper rustles against his chest, his fingers clenching so hard as to wrinkle it. Vera stares at him, her eyes softening as she kneels by his bedside.

“Listen to me,” she says, her fingers resting lightly against his arm. “It’s not too late to mend things again, if they are broken. He might be writing letters to you, not sending them, because he feels the same way. How would you know, hm? Maybe he just needs a nudge in the right direction.”

Crowley has never needed nudges. He’s been the one nudging Aziraphale, six millenia onwards. He’s never forced Aziraphale into anything he’s been uncomfortable with, but Aziraphale would be a fool if he didn’t recognise Crowley’s hints as anything that they were. A branch of friendship that he can never fully take, even if he can come close.

_Why_ had Crowley needed to ask for holy water? For _insurance_? If Hell found out about their Arrangement, Aziraphale would come to _help_. Surely he knows that Aziraphale would help in any possible way - any way but _that_ one.

“I’m not sure he’s the same person he’s been,” Aziraphale murmurs, and looks at his letter again, tracing _Dear Crowley_ with his fingers. “The way we parted, and he hasn’t once reached out - it’s not the person I know. And I’m not even sure that _I_ am the same.”

“Only one way to find out, Mr Fell,” Vera says, and pats him once again for good measure before sitting up again. “Send those letters.”

“Maybe,” he tells her, and watches her as she walks away. He waits until she is gone, and then gingerly puts his pencil to the paper again. Richard breathes quietly, and he scratches his words.

~*~*~*~

Dear Crowley,

This will be one of my last letters to you. You might ask me why. When I compose these letters to you, I sometimes imagine you reading them. I like to think of you sitting at home, undisturbed by any war, scowling at the violent tendencies of humans. I think of your fingers tracing the words I have written, and responding as if I were there in person. Perhaps I imagine too much, but it is something of a comfort to me.

It is easier to talk to you over letters, maybe precisely because you can’t respond. I find myself to be concerned with what you think of my actions and my thoughts normally. You aren’t in a habit of getting angry with me (not unless we think of that last horrible conversation, anyway) or teasing me for what I say, and nonetheless, I want you to think well of me. I remember Babylon, when you thought it was me who told the humans you were a demon: all I wanted, at that moment, was for you to turn back, so I could explain myself. The very thought of you thinking that I would have done it made me ill: unfortunately for me, you’re a fast flier, and in those days, I might not have asked you to come back anyway. So you went away, and I didn’t see you for years.

I haven’t yet answered my own question - this is because it’s easier to think of you than of my current situation. This one will be among my last letters, because I strongly suspect Gabriel will want me to return to Heaven. I have been blessing too many soldiers all at once. I got a reprimation a few centuries back, as you’ll remember, and I don’t think they’ll be as lenient this time. The war continues on, and I have saved a few dozen people - but on a large scale, I am powerless as any human. Still, I feel I have done the right thing. I don’t particularly want to return to Heaven: I find myself rather in the mood for some hot cocoa, and Heaven has never been particularly big on gross matter. 

I hope you’re still on Earth, too. The thought of you returning to Hell just occurred to me - but I know you dislike it down there, and they haven’t any red wine for you. 

Yours,

Aziraphale

~*~*~*~

Gabriel appears in the middle of the day, next time, and takes Aziraphale away from Richard to go talk to him outside. People pass them by, but no one pays them any heed - Aziraphale doesn’t know if they just don’t seem as interesting, or if it’s a miracle.

Gabriel is wearing the soldier’s uniform again, Aziraphale notices with some disinterest. He wonders why God’s messenger would choose it above a simple nurse’s uniform.

“Listen up,” Gabriel says tersely, and there’s little left of his masked politeness. “We’ve been very accommodating about what you’ve been doing here. I didn’t say anything when you wanted to be in the warzone, even though it would be _super inconvenient_ for me if you got discorporated. Got that?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale says.

“So will you explain to me why, _after I explicitly told you not to_ , you have been spending so many miracles healing them?”

“They were _dying,_ ” he says, and knows Gabriel won’t listen even as he tries. “So many of them - you weren’t there, Gabriel.”

“Why do you care if they die?” Gabriel says through his teeth. “They’ve been dying since they came into existence. Why are you getting so upset about it now? It never was a problem _before!_ ”

Aziraphale is silent. He could explain the existence of mustard gas, and the flamethrowers, and really, what other reason does he have to give that is not already given by this horrible war? But if Gabriel doesn’t care about their deaths, he won’t care about the manner of their departure. He sits up in Heaven: they don’t understand.

“I’m sorry,” he says eventually, when it becomes clear that Gabriel isn’t going to let him off so easily. “It won’t happen again.”

“It definitely won’t. You’re going back to Heaven.”

Aziraphale whips up his head. He’d guessed, of course, but still. “Wait, Gabriel. Please - it - I _promise_. It won’t happen again.”

Gabriel purses his lips. “You said that last time. But if you’re getting too sensitive -”

“No, no,” Aziraphale hurries to say. “It’s - erm. Look, I admit that the situation hasn’t been ideal so far, but it’s not because of - increased _sensitivity_ , so to speak. We can feel the humans, to some extent, and now - they’re in a lot of pain. I can _feel_ them being in a lot of pain. I overreacted, and I’m _sorry_ , but going back to Heaven - erm. It’s not going to help, is all I’m saying.”

When he dares to look Gabriel in the eyes again, he finds the archangel staring back in thought. “You’re sure that you were just reacting to the humans?”

“Oh, _yes_ ,” Aziraphale says. “Completely certain. Beyond a shadow of doubt!”

“It would be terribly inconvenient to find someone to replace you,” Gabriel says mildly.

“I don’t terribly mind staying on Earth,” Aziraphale agrees.

“Although,” Gabriel continues, “you’ve proven that you can’t really stay here without succumbing to the humans’ feeling of pain. And we can’t have that happening again, so you can’t stay here.”

Aziraphale finds himself wringing his hands. “But -”

“On the other hand,” Gabriel says, ignoring Aziraphale fully, “I don’t much like that we haven’t heard much from the demon Crowley in a long time. I think Hell might be up to something.”

A war, perhaps, Aziraphale thinks fleetingly, but he knows better than to say it. Crowley wouldn’t involve himself in this, anyway.

“So perhaps I should return to London?” Aziraphale tentatively suggests. 

“Yes!” Gabriel shouts, and Aziraphale flinches. No one else is looking in their direction still, so he surmises that it’s really just a miracle that keeps everyone’s attention away. A bit ironic, considering what Gabriel is telling him off for.

“Yes?” Aziraphale repeats, just to make sure.

Gabriel points a finger at him. “London, Aziraphale, back to London. A brilliant idea. You can resume your old cover and take up your old tasks. This -” at this, he waves around his arms, and Aziraphale is still not sure what he means - “will all be far away, so you’ll keep your miracles to a minimum. Right?”

“Right.”

The smile that Gabriel sends him is more teeth than anything else, and he clasps his hand. “Well! Good talk, good talk. I’m glad we managed to smooth this out. I’ll expect you back there within the week. And no more miracles!”

With that, he disappears from this plane of existence. Aziraphale sighs. Talking to Gabriel is always such a dreadfully exhausting affair, and it hasn’t gotten better over the years. The worst case scenario has been averted, however. Aziraphale can stay on Earth - and leave Ypres.

He tries not to feel too guilty at the thought, and fails miserably.

~*~*~*~

He finds her, this time. She’s tending to one of the soldiers, gently cleaning a horrible wound while the man sleeps. Aziraphale doesn’t think he’ll make it, but still Vera sits with him, as attentive as she is with anyone else.

“I need to speak to you,” he says, and she doesn’t even look up. She just gestures for him to come, and he stands by the bed awkwardly. Her eyes don’t leave her task, but a minute smile tugs at her lips.

“What about?” she asks when she’s done with her patient, after Aziraphale has lived through a full minute of trying to find the words. How silly of him, to have spent so many years reading books, leafing through all of human experience put to words, and still not know what to say.

“I am leaving,” he says, and that does make her look at him. “I wanted to tell you, since you’ve been so - kind, to me. But I am leaving Ypres and going back to London. It’s out of my hands, I’m afraid.”

The way she searches his face makes him uncomfortable, and he puts his hands together just to give them something to do. She rises in one fluent motion, bringing them to a more equal level. That helps a little, at least. He doesn’t much like to look down on any conversational partner. At any rate, he’s more used to looking up; Crowley’s corporation is a little taller than Aziraphale’s.

“I think that might be a good decision,” she says, and look around her. “Come, we’ll talk somewhere more private.”

“Aren’t you on your shift?” Aziraphale asks, but he does follow her as she walks. She doesn’t stop until she’s outside, the wind stark and cutting but not as cold as it could’ve been with the sun shining down on them.

“No,” Vera says, and slows her pace so they’re walking together. The further they go, the fewer people they encounter; it makes Aziraphale feel a bit more at ease. “I wasn’t on my shift. There’s just so few nurses that I thought I’d help out some more.”

Aziraphale raises an eyebrow at her. “And I thought you called me too soft for staying with my patients.”

She shrugs. “It’s not a crime to care,” she tells him, and stops walking, crossing her arms to keep herself warm. The sun on her face shows how pale she’s become, the past few months - but then again, all of them have. “It’s just that you have to be careful it’s not getting in your way.”

He smiles, and doesn’t think it’ll look sincere. “Well, I’ve always been somewhat of a rubbish nurse, anyway.”

“Not rubbish,” she says, and huffs out a laugh. “Peculiar, definitely. Single-minded, yes. And far too kind to deal with it. You’re not leaving because you think you’re not suited for the work, Mr Fell. You’re leaving because you have to. And I think it’s wise.”

She doesn’t know what Gabriel ordered. Aziraphale frowns, wrings his hands. “Do you, now?” he asks. “Why?”

Vera turns. “You know why,” she says simply. “You’ve seen the soldiers, just like I have. Sometimes, when we’re lucky, we get to save a life, right? And I used to think that’d be the end of it. But then the shell shock sets in. You’ve heard of it, haven’t you?”

Shell shock; the mental issues after living through major trauma. Aziraphale knows that soldiers are suffering from it. He’s seen it, sometimes, and he’s heard stories.

“Of course I have,” he says impatiently. “I don’t see the relevance.”

Vera glances at him. “Shell shock comes in many different ways and packages,” she says quietly. “And I think it’s not only to be found in soldiers. Aren’t we out there every day, too? Fighting for their lives? The soldiers can’t find it in themselves to return to the front when they’ve been so shattered by what they’ve seen. Why shouldn’t the same go for us?”

Aziraphale falls silent. She’s wrong, of course, completely wrong. He’s leaving not because he’s afraid - he’d stay, right up until the very end. He wouldn’t _enjoy_ it, but he _would_. He could.

Couldn’t he? 

“My dear girl,” he says quietly, “I’m not shell shocked. I’m not a soldier, and I’m not traumatised.”

He should let her believe it, really. It’s an easy explanation for why he’s leaving the front and going home, while so many others are stuck in this reality. But he has to justify it; he’s not ill. Blessing all those soldiers, that wasn’t him _breaking_ , that was him _healing_. Angels can’t be traumatised. They’re ethereal beings.

“If you say so,” Vera says, and gently pats his coat, right where there’s always a letter sitting for Crowley. “But do you know what I think? About why you always just picked the one patient to look over? About why you should send those letters?”

“No, but I’m absolutely sure you won’t be right,” Aziraphale says.

She rolls her eyes, but it’s a fond thing. It reminds him of Crowley, for a second, when the demon is indulging him. He’d tap his feet impatiently, and look at Aziraphale over the rim of whatever glasses are trendy, eyebrows raised and his golden eyes focused. Maybe she is indulging him, too. She’d like Crowley, he thinks. 

“You’re staying with them,” Vera says, like a mother lecturing a child, “because you think it’s what they need. You think that if you leave them, you will have been a bad nurse; you think you need to guard them, stand by them, always. It’s because that’s what _you_ need - someone who won’t leave your side. And I’m not sure what that man you’re writing means to you, I really don’t. But I know you love him.”

He reaches for the letter, as if it’s giving him away. “I don’t,” he protests, although feeling the paper’s crispy texture already makes him feel less alone. “He’s - he was my _friend_. Just… a friend.”

There’s nothing ‘just’ about Crowley, really. He’s been the only constant in a life lasting six thousand years. A demon, though, and to even dare call him a friend makes Aziraphale’s skin prickle. Crowley must know, surely, even if Aziraphale can never say it. If Heaven or Hell knew - well. In asking for holy water, Crowley proved how he disregards his own life. Aziraphale will guard it more carefully. 

“If you were to see him,” Vera presses, “would he send you away?”

Maybe. It’s not something Aziraphale can do, anyway. “I don’t know.”

“Give him the letters when you get home,” she says. “Tell him. Promise me that.”

Aziraphale regards her for a few moments. A young widow, her hands always so nimble as she heals the injured soldiers. She must’ve been concerned for Aziraphale’s mental health here, and now she tries to heal him. It’s kind enough that he finds himself smiling at her, and he takes his hand off his letter and grabs both of hers. 

“You are too kind,” he says. “And these soldiers are lucky to have you.”

She sighs, but squeezes his hands in return. “So are you,” she says. “Think about what I said, Mr Fell. You deserve someone who’s willing to guard you, too.”

Crowley has done enough for him. Aziraphale’s shoulders sag and lets go of Vera. “I’ll be fine, Ms Chapman,” he says. “But I think I’ll be alright playing the guardian for a little while longer, if you don’t mind.”

She blinks at him, and Aziraphale softens. She doesn’t need to understand for his words to be true. Maybe she has a point about him not being able to be here; even if he refuses to believe that _he_ suffers any kind of trauma, he’s certainly sensitive to the humans’. It’s simply too much for a single angel to feel.

“When are you leaving?” she asks, straightening her shoulders. “Shouldn’t you pack?”

“Everything’s already settled,” he assures him, although the simple truth is that everything he would ever need is still in Soho. “I’ll be leaving directly.”

“Alright then.” Vera messes with her bun a little bit. She seems to think about something, and then puts her arms around him. Aziraphale pats her shoulder awkwardly. It’s not the first time he’s had to say his farewells to humans, but it’s been a while now. Vera is thin, but her hug crushes him.

“You’ll be doing good things here,” Aziraphale murmurs, and his blessing settles on her like a warm coat, tingling at his fingertips. “And you’ll come out of this alive and content.”

“I’ll write to you,” Vera says when she lets go, and then her smile crooks. “At least you’ll have someone then to whom you can actually send your letters, Mr Fell.”

Aziraphale nods. “I’ll look forward to them,” he says.

With a last tentative look, Vera turns back. Aziraphale watches her go. He should be back in England by tomorrow; back in Soho, with his books and his candles. It’s an odd feeling after the time in Ypres. He’s not yet sure if it’s a comfortable feeling, or if he wants to do more here. If he can suppress this need to _help_.

It’s out of his hands. What he wants doesn’t matter; he has a direct command from Gabriel.

Aziraphale turns away from Ypres, and only takes his stack of letters as evidence that he ever was there.

~*~*~*~

Dear Crowley,

I’m home. The bookshop is as I left it. Now that I am surrounded by my books again, I realise how much I missed them. Do you think I wrote you so much because I simply missed reading others’ words? No, that would imply that writing to you had nothing to do with you, and that is simply a disservice to you. Simply the thought of someone else who would hate this as much as I did sustained me every day, Crowley. How contradictory, how much I wanted you to be there and how glad I was that you weren’t.

But now I find myself in Soho again, sitting where you’ve so often sat before. I’ve got a red in my cellar, still - would you like to finish it with me? I’d like to hear what you have been up to these days, and I can tell you about the lives I’ve saved, and about Vera. Most of all, maybe I’d like to forget it for a bit, and think about happier days.

It’s been over half a century, Crowley, certainly you’ve realised by now that you were wrong. I’d love to see you soon so we can put this all behind us. Perhaps that red will go a long way in restoring our earlier friendship.

Yours,

Aziraphale

~*~*~*~

8 July, 1916

His home is as dusty as he left it. The books are all where he remembers them being, and the thick smell of old paper lingers in the air. Aziraphale sniffs it, feeling his chest broaden as he breathes in deeply. Then he exhales, but the smell is still there, and he smiles as he runs his fingers over one of his Wildes.

His last letter is on the desk. He didn’t think he’d write one at home, but his fingers had itched with unwritten words. Maybe it’s for the better this way: now he has some closure. A final letter to Crowley, who won’t ever know that he had these letters. 

What to do with them, now?

There’s a neat stack of them sitting on the desk, the paper browning already a bit. Thousands of words to a demon he hasn’t seen in five decades. Maybe he really is a fool; he thinks of Vera’s words. _I know you love him_.

It weighs heavily on him. It’s not true, not the way she meant it, of course - Aziraphale isn’t fool enough for that, at least. He isn’t human, and neither is Crowley, and the reason they are friends is because they both understand humanity in a way that no other angel or demon does. Humanity doesn’t understand their kind of bond, simply because there’s nothing like it for them. 

_Fraternising_ , he’d said, fifty years ago. The words feel so twisted now, side by side with _I know you love him_ , both so right and wrong. Crowley knows, he _knows_ that Aziraphale can’t openly speak what they are. They can’t throw caution to the wind simply because they haven’t been caught yet. 

Nothing to throw to the wind between them now, though. Aziraphale sits down at his desk, staring at the letters. Thousands of words to a demon he hasn’t seen in half a century, all solid proof that Aziraphale considers him a friend, even if the words haven’t been spoken aloud. What are the chances of Heaven finding them? Would it matter?

He should burn them. He bites his lip at the thought. It is the sensible thing to do, really, and he’s never been anything but sensible in that regard. He should burn them, and then there’ll be nothing to worry about anymore. All of it will be gone, Aziraphale’s shameful musings on the war and his fondness towards Crowley disappeared from the world.

If he burns them, he’ll never send them. Crowley will never read them, which was exactly the plan. Besides, Crowley won’t want to, and he hasn’t come around. Maybe he won’t see Crowley again anytime soon - centuries passing between meetings used to be a regular occurrence more than not. 

He takes them. A single matchstick, and his words will be ash.

He shoves back his chair, wincing at the screeching sound echoing through the bookshop. The stack of letters are put on one of the bookshelves as he rummages through some of his old storages. There should be some matchsticks somewhere. He ought to burn them outside, of course, just to make sure his books are protected.

It takes him a minute, but the matchsticks are there, on the bottom of a dark and dusty cabinet that he hasn’t opened in ages. In fact, it’s a bit hidden between two bookshelves in the far back, and hidden by another stack of books and newspapers in front of it. He’d only found it again by accident.

Aziraphale takes the matchsticks, regards them. Such simple things, really, and so is fire itself, really. A basic thing of nature, burning heat to wash everything away. To burn away this time, this disastrous event in human history, if only his own part in it. To destroy his desire to talk to Crowley.

He kneels down, and puts down the letters in the hidden cabinet. Heaven won’t be interested in searching his bookshop, and Crowley’s mild distaste for literature will keep him away from these shelves, if he’s ever to return. 

He can burn them tomorrow, he decides. And with that Aziraphale stands up, and leaves the last remainders of his days in the Great War hidden in Soho.

~*~*~*~

21 February, 2021

Their home is a half hour away from Vera Chapman’s grave. If Crowley drives, it’s twenty minutes at most. Aziraphale asked him to go a bit slower, today, and Crowley had looked at him with some concern, but he’d done as asked.

It takes twenty-five minutes for the Bentley to roll to a stop before the small cemetery: by Crowley’s standards, positively a snail’s pace. It’s unimpressive looking, and in the February grey, it’s very unwelcoming. 

Now he’s here, Aziraphale doesn’t want to get out of the car. He stares at the name above the cemetery, and wrings his hands on his lap. Next to him, he can feel Crowley staring at him again.

“This is it, angel,” the demon says, his voice gentle and soothing. Does Aziraphale look that horrible? Like a scared cat to be talked out of a tree? He exhales, letting his head fall against the headrest for a second. 

“Yes,” Aziraphale murmurs. “I can see that.”

Crowley makes a noise. “Aren’t you going to get out? What are we even doing here?”

Aziraphale opens the door, stepping out. The muddy ground slightly sags underneath his shoes. There’s a path towards the entrance of the graveyard, but it’s not well maintained. It doesn’t seem as if many people still come here: perhaps no one is buried here anymore. Anyone who lies here has been forgotten. From the other side, he can hear Crowley’s door opening and then falling shut, and the soft footsteps.

The demon appears by his side, close enough so that Aziraphale only needs to lean over to touch him. He doesn’t, and they stay like this for a few seconds, both staring.

“I’m sure you’re wondering why I wanted to come here,” Aziraphale says quietly, and wraps his arms around himself. 

Crowley shrugs, and the fabric of his leather jacket brushes against Aziraphale’s arm so lightly that he might not have noticed if he hadn’t been paying attention. “Erm, I mean, kind of? That’s not really - if you don’t want to tell me, you don’t have to.”

“I told you I fought in the Great War, didn’t I?” Aziraphale says. It’s not something they’ve talked about often: there’s not much reason to bring it up, really. They both have seen their fair share of horrendous human accomplishments, and wars aren’t their favourite to talk about. 

“Yeah,” Crowley says. “Told me when we met, after - y’know. Because Heaven didn’t want you fighting in the second.”

“I lied to you,” Aziraphale says, and pretends not to notice how Crowley tenses. “I didn’t fight, as such. I didn’t want to, so I signed up as a nurse instead. I went to the battlefields a few times, to save some of the soldiers from mustard gas or flamethrowers. I was a horrible nurse, though. I kept sitting with one single soldier at a time, until he lived - or died.”

“Fighting for their lives, then?” Crowley says breezily. “That’s not really lying, that is. So, why’re we here, then? Someone you saved is now here?”

“No,” Aziraphale says, and tilts his head. “Rather the opposite, I’m afraid. Come, let’s find where she is.”

Crowley doesn’t comment, but he follows Aziraphale readily, sunglasses perched on top of his nose and hands in his pockets. Aziraphale would be lying if he said he doesn’t notice the heaviness of Crowley’s gaze on top of him, though. It’s comforting more than anything, these days, to know that he always has someone to look out for him.

It’s the only way to ever come back to Vera Chapman, he knows. Fulfilling the promise he refused to make her in Ypres, over a century ago. He didn’t think she’d mind having to wait for a bit, patient as she was. Although she might have scolded him for it. 

He finds her soon enough, her name standing out in bold letters: VERA S. CHAPMAN. Next to her is another headstone, the name on it reading PAUL CHAPMAN. He must have been her husband. Aziraphale recognises his name from several letters, but he smiles upon seeing it nonetheless. So they are together, in the end.

He crouches down besides her. “Hello, Vera,” he says. 

Crowley comes to stand next to him. “That her?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale says, and suddenly is at a loss. “She - erm. She was a nurse, too, in Ypres. She always was very kind to me. We’ve exchanged letters until long after the war ended, until it became too hard for her to write them still. Arthritis, you see.”

Crowley is silent for a moment, shuffling on the ground. “Yeah. I’m glad you had a friend there. Didn’t seem like a good place for you to be.”

“It wasn’t,” Aziraphale says, and turns up to face Crowley. “It was one of the most horrible places I’ve been. I thought I couldn’t say it, before - that it was to be expected of me to go there, ease the suffering of others. And I _am_ proud of what I did, you know? I saved quite some lives, although perhaps in an unconventional way.”

“Doesn’t mean that you had to like it,” Crowley says.

“It’s why I left early,” Aziraphale admits. “I couldn’t be around their pain all the time. Vera made it easier. I was writing these _letters_ , you see? She told me to send them, so that there might be someone with whom I could share my experiences. I never did, because - well. It seemed too human to do, really. And I was afraid.”

Crowley’s not wearing his glasses anymore. Aziraphale’s not sure at what point he took them off, but the gold stands out all the clearer in the dreary grey weather, contrasted with his dark clothes. 

“What are you saying, angel?” 

Aziraphale snaps his fingers, and the letters appear in his hands. The stack is large enough that he needs both to hold it, even though he tied them together with a string beforehand. The paper is yellowed and old, the ink fading already, but it should still be readable.

“I told her I’d send them when I got home,” Aziraphale says quietly. “She asked me to promise, and I never did. But now I’ve _found_ a home, although it’s been the long way ‘round. So I thought I should keep my word, although it’s a bit overdue.”

Crowley takes the package tenderly, his fingers brushing over the paper. He lifts up one end of the paper carefully, so that the addressee can be read - _Dear Crowley_ , there in Aziraphale’s own neat handwriting. 

“These are for me,” Crowley says flatly. “All of them?”

“I thought I just wrote them for myself,” Aziraphale admits. “There’s a great many of them, I’ll admit. There wasn’t much to do, and I spent a lot of my time thinking. The point is, they weren’t _meant_ to be sent, not originally. But I did write them for you, I think, my dear. If you - erm. Want them, still. They might be a bit dated for your tastes.”

“ _You’re_ a bit dated for my taste,” Crowley returns flatly, without any heat or real intent. “Hasn’t ever stopped me from liking you, has it now?”

“I suppose not,” Aziraphale says, and feels irrationally anxious about how he’ll take the contents of the letters. Maybe he should’ve reread all of them before handing them over like that, and picked which ones to give to Crowley more carefully.

No, of course not. That’s the entire point of this, isn’t it? That he trusts Crowley with all parts of himself? Even the ones that he might not like as much? The letters were already Crowley’s, even if he pretended not to know it since the moment he wrote them. There’s nothing in there that’s not for Crowley to know.

“Erm,” Crowley says, and stares at Aziraphale again. “Angel - I’m. Thank you? I’m just - I’m sorry I wasn’t there. I wish I could’ve helped.”

And the thing is, Aziraphale doesn’t doubt that he does. Crowley’s shoulders are hunched, like he doesn’t know how to hold himself, and he’s pressing the letters against his chest as if for safekeeping. A part of Aziraphale is glad that he’ll get to see Crowley reading the letters now, and actually responding to them. 

“Oh, you did,” is all he says, and stands up, looking back towards the headstone. “Now. Erm. I should’ve brought flowers, I suppose? Oh, that’s a bit rude of me.”

Crowley snaps his fingers, and a beautiful arrangement of flowers appears in his hands. They’re all red and pink and blue, and Aziraphale doesn’t know their names, but he thinks Crowley does. The demon bows down wordlessly, laying them down almost reverently.

When he stretches out again, his lips twitch. “I s’pose I ought to thank her too, don’t you?” he says. “For keeping you out of trouble when I didn’t?”

“You’re making it sound like I’m utterly incapable of taking care of myself,” Aziraphale says, affronted, and then turns back to the gravestone. “But yes. I do owe her some gratitude. Goodbye, Vera. You were absolutely _wonderful_.”

They stand there for a couple more minutes. Then the sky rumbles, and the rain starts, which is always a surefire way to get Crowley grumpy, so Aziraphale miracles up an umbrella and they walk back to the car. They’re pressed together, this time, and Aziraphale smiles to himself as he hears Crowley grumble about the weather in England again under his breath.

As if there would be any other place that they could ever end up.

“You know,” Crowley says, when they’re back in the car, neither of them nor the letters worse for the wear, “that we could check, right? Where she ended up. If that’s something you wanted to know.”

Aziraphale shakes his head. “I already know where she ended up,” he says. “She’s right there, next to her husband. Where she always wanted to end up, really. And beyond that, I’d really rather not know. That’s what she deserves, you know, to always have one she loves by her side.”

“Alright,” Crowley says easily, and clenches and unclenches his fingers around the steering wheel a couple of times. “You know, erm. It’s a nice thought, that. That they’re by each other’s side.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale hums in agreement. “It rather is, I think.”

And with that, they drive home.

**Author's Note:**

> ah, how I love putting in references to things I've already written and things I'm yet to write. this is why I wanted a historical series so badly.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you all enjoyed it! This was definitely one of the more serious and dark ones I'd say. Research was a bit tricky on this one since I'm v busy with other things and just had some trouble finding good sources, but I hope it's still alright-ish. See you in the next one and don't hesitate to drop a comment! :)


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